A Business of Ferrets (Bharaghlafi Book 1) (13 page)

Chapter Thirteen—Secrets

There were relatively few courtiers in the garden, that morning, as Arre made her way to the stone fountain where Venykhar Ghobhezh-Ykhave waited. She and the old flute-maker were going to the Windbringer Temple together, to make music with Kerigden.

As they left the garden, Arre noticed that the courtiers buzzed with some interesting gossip—so much so that they neglected their usual game of be-rude-to-the-foreigner. She speculated about what the news might be, but she couldn't guess; it was possible, she thought with jaded hope, they might simply have tired of making sport of her.

The King's City was full of people dressed in holiday finery; Ythykh-Fair was upon them. Arre and Venykhar made their way through the press to the haven of the Windbringer Temple. When they reached their destination, they were shown to one of the inner chapels, where Kerigden, the High Priest of the Windbringer, played quietly upon a small harp.

He was not a large man, but he was imposing nonetheless, with his fire bright hair, clear green eyes and his undeniable presence. Even in repose, his features were vivid, and his smile of greeting lit his face.

"Arre. Ven. Good morning." He reached into a fold of his robe and produced a folded piece of paper. "I have a note for you, Ven."

"What does it say?" the Ykhave Council Lord asked as he reached for it.

The priest smiled and gestured them to stools. "I didn't read it. Sit."

"It's not even sealed," Arre observed, laughing. "No wonder the Council Houses don't know what to make of you, Kerigden. What does it say, Ven?"

But Venykhar didn't reply. Instead, frowning, he pushed the note into Arre's hand.

As Arre's fingers touched the paper, her inward vision flared warning. She held the note gingerly, her eyes closed, while her mind pursued the images: a weathered signboard, crudely painted, with a smirking woman in a reddish gown; a boy with a still, placid face, but watchful brown eyes—briefly overlaid by the patient, gray muzzle and long ears of a donkey; the thief, Ferret, and a man, his scarred face mostly in shadow; one of the Ghytteve bodyguards, unmistakably dead. As the storm of visions subsided, she opened her eyes, remembered to breathe, and read the note. 'Please tell Venykhar Ghobhezh-Ykhave that he has earned the enmity of Ghytteve. They are at least watching, and possibly planning him harm.' It was signed with a symbol—neither a name, nor an initial—which was meaningless to Arre.

"Do you know who this is from?" she asked him.

"Yes."

"Do you know what it is about?" she probed, with an edge of exasperation.

"It must be because of Owl. The Ghytteve have no doubt heard that I was interested in the boy, and they are seeing counterplots in the shadows."

"Owl?" Kerigden asked; and between them, Arre and Venykhar told him what they knew about the former beggar, and his entrapment in Ycevi Ghytteve's schemes.

"Elkhar Ghytteve is the most intensely suspicious individual I have ever met," the High Priest mused. "But Ven, wanting to assassinate you for showing an interest in a slave seems extreme, even for him. What else could be contributing to the situation?"

"One of the Ghytteve bodyguards—Cyffe—is dead," Arre said in an almost toneless voice; her eyes grew unfocused as her inner vision was again assaulted by visions: the Prime Minister and his nephew, Rhydev Azhere, deep in conversation; Owl, Ferret and a third girl sitting on the Waiting Wall at the Temple Gate; Elkhar Ghytteve gripping the same girl by the wrists; a thin fingered hand with a green-gemmed ring resting on Owl's shoulder; the unknown girl again—overlaid briefly by a kitten's face.

She surfaced from her visions abruptly, a piece of the puzzle snapping into place. "It's the pattern which has Elkhar worried," she said, "as well as Cyffe's death. Owl; Mouse; Ferret. He doesn't like it."

"Mouse and Ferret?" Kerigden asked.

"Mouse is the little artist," Venykhar said. "I told you about her; Ferret's another friend, I think."

Arre nodded. "That's right. She's older than the other two, and she's a thief. She'd be enough to make Elkhar nervous, if he knows about her; and she's involved, somehow. I've dreamed of her. Ven," she added gently, "don't you have some pressing business in Khavenaffe? I'd hate to see you come to harm."

The old lord raised his eyebrows. "And are you going back to Kalledann? This isn't really your quarrel, after all."

She shook her head. "Actually, after we've finished here, I'm planning to go into the Slums. I'm looking for a tavern."

"There are taverns in better parts of the city," Venykhar pointed out.

"Oh, I know," Arre said easily. "I'm looking for a particular one." She smiled apologetically. "I'll tell you more when I've answered some of my own questions. Shall we play?"

***

The Temple Gate was more crowded than Arre's most pessimistic expectation. With merrymakers jammed like grapes in a winepress, it took skill and tact to get through. As Arre neared the low wall which bordered the Slums, she noticed a boy ahead of her. She watched with admiration as he weaseled neatly between a stout merchant and his equally stout wife. The boy darted an engaging smile at the couple as he slipped by.

"Lad!" Arre called; he looked like he'd know the Slums. As he glanced over his shoulder, she waved to him. He waited for her to catch him up. His bright eyes, and abrupt, quick movements made her think of a small woodland creature.

"I wonder whether you might be able to guide me to a particular tavern? I can't remember what it's called, but its sign has a smiling woman in a red dress." He caught the coin she flipped him with practiced ease.

"The Trollop's Smile," he said as he eyed her dubiously. "It's in the Slums. It's not exactly safe, lady."

She spun another coin toward him. "I'm not as feeble as I look," she told him dryly.

His expression hinted at mischief. "I'm
supposed
to be running an errand, but I might take a detour,
if
..."

She tossed a third coin to him; a Half-Noble. "Of course I'll pay for your inconvenience."

He nodded. "Come on."

Even in the Slums, where the crowds weren't as thick, Arre had to work to keep up; finally, he paused beneath the swinging signboard of her vision. She tossed him another coin and he hurried away.

Arre didn't go in, right away. The sign was right, but the door was somehow wrong. After a moment, she went looking for the kitchen entrance, which she found off the alleyway that ran along the far side of the building. The kitchen door was open. Arre peered in cautiously. It was a long, shadowy room; activity was centered at the front end, near the hearth. A graying man—judging by the leather apron stretched over his paunch, the tapster or the tavern master—inspected a cauldron of rank fish stew; a boy sliced bread and cheese at a plodding pace, setting the pieces on wooden trenchers. It was the boy from her visions. The man gave a final stir to the stew, then, with a muffled oath, bustled through the door into the taproom in response to several raised voices. As he went out, Arre came into the kitchen.

"Excuse me. I'm looking for Ferret or Mouse," she told the boy.

The boy ceased his methodical slicing to peer around the dim kitchen with painstaking thoroughness. "Not here."

"Are they apt to come in later?"

He repeated the performance, ending with a baffled stare in Arre's direction. "Might."

"May I wait here for them?" she asked pleasantly. "It's quite important."

The boy gestured toward the taproom. "Wait in there."

"I'd rather wait here, " she said, wondering how to put the boy at ease. He
couldn't
be as stupid as he acted; though there was no hint of it in his expression, now, she remembered his watchful intelligence from her vision. Before she could try another tack, the tavern master came in from the taproom.

"Thantor! I
need
that bread." Noticing Arre, he demanded crossly, "What're you doing here, besides distracting my nephew?"

Something about the name jolted Arre; she looked sharply at the tavern master and said, "What did you call him?"

"Thantor," he snapped. "It's his
name
. I dinna approve of the way that Ferret mocks him: Donkey, indeed. And now, happen you'll answer me: what are you doing in my kitchen?"

Arre forced herself to answer over her rising excitement. "I'm looking for Ferret—or Mouse."

The tavern master made a sour face. "On
Ythykh-Fair?
They'll be working, both of them, until after nightfall. Now, if you'd like ale or food, come into the taproom. Else, go away. This is a tavern kitchen, not a boarding house, or a meeting place!" He seized the trays of bread and cheese. When Arre didn't move, he huffed in exasperation. "Go on; away with you! Drop by this evening, but right now, Thantor needs his wits undivided." Then, he was gone.

Arre remained motionless as, with a feeling akin to a chord suddenly centering into tune, a series of disparate pieces connected. "
Donkey
; you're Donkey. Ferret. Mouse. Donkey. Owl," she said softly. "You're all part of it."

Arre had barely finished speaking when she was grabbed from behind by someone who'd learned to fight early and dirty. One arm was pinned painfully behind her, while a knife rested against her throat. "What are you?" a man's voice grated. "Some Ghytteve cur?"

"No! My name is Arre; I'm from Kalledann. Hasn't Ferret spoken of me?"

"No," he gritted, without slackening his grip. "Why should she? And what do you know of the others?"

Arre swallowed convulsively, felt the blade cold against her throat. "Ferret—I met Ferret on the waterfront. I've seen Owl at the Palace; and Venykhar spoke of Mouse."

Sharkbait sheathed his knife and released the woman. She turned to look at him; as their eyes clashed, recognition sparked in both their faces. Sharkbait spoke first. "The Emperor's foreign witch."

"Who are you?"

His smile was unpleasant. "I'm Sharkbait."

"You're
Anzhibhar!
The resemblance—"

"
No!
"

"Yes! Which collateral branch? Not Ghytteve—Azhere?"

"No! I'm
just Sharkbait!
"

Arre's eyes unfocused for an instant as an image overran the dim kitchen scene: the white rose badge of House Ykhave. She sent her bardic memory coursing along family trees. Her voice was almost singsong. "Zhanece Anzhibar married Khanyrr Ykhave and bore a son, Anzhyran who married—"

Sharkbait caught Arre's wrist and twisted until she caught her breath in pain. "No more—or I break it. Hear me:
I want no part of my past
." With his free hand, he traced the scar on his face. "
None.
And if I have to kill to keep my secret, I will. I refuse to be a piece on the Council Houses'
khacce
table. Do you understand?"

Arre nodded; he released her wrist, which she hugged to her stomach, fighting nausea. "You're the one organizing the dock workers," she remarked after a moment. It was not a question, but Sharkbait nodded.

"I'd kill to keep that secret, too," he warned.

"You've made that point," Arre said waspishly. "But who
are
the game pieces? And where does Owl fit?"

Sharkbait's eyes glinted. "Does the name Cithanekh mean anything to you?"

Arre nodded slowly. "Antelle Anzhibhar—Ythkheff's sister—married Cithekh Ghytteve. They had several children; one was named Cithanekh."

"What an amazing memory," Sharkbait said, sardonic.

"Indeed. Courtesy of the Kellande School. And Owl?"

"Such tenacity: I admire that. Ycevi Ghytteve bought Owl for ten Royals; she must have a use for him."

"She said he was irresistible, and that the poor bastard didn't stand a chance," Arre murmured. "What do you know about Cithanekh?"

"I saw him in an tavern with Rhydev Azhere."

"Rhydev
Azhere?
Sharkbait, I don't like this."

Sharkbait hunched one shoulder. "'When you drink with nobles,'" he quoted an adage, "'watch for poison.'"

"Or 'Intrigue makes few friends, but many bedfellows.'"

Sharkbait laughed. "I've never heard that one; where did you get it?"

Arre smiled faintly. "I made it up." Then, she noticed the spreading, dark blotch on his shirt. "Good God, you're bleeding." As she made to look more closely, he twisted out of reach. "I'm only trying to
help
."

"Donkey can tend me. You had better go; if Arkhyd comes back and you're still here, there really will be trouble."

Arre hesitated, but an urgent hiss of warning from the boy started her toward the door. "I'll be back—as soon as I may," Arre promised; she slipped outside just as the tavern master came back into the kitchen with a tray of soiled dishes.

Chapter Fourteen—Ythykh-Fair

The Ythykh-Fair crowds were a pickpocket's dream. Ferret eeled through shoals of folk, helping herself to the contents of other people's purses. Mouse and her parents were doing a brisk trade in nosegays and posies, but mindful of the risk, Ferret didn't stop to chat. Once, from a distance, she caught a glimpse of Squirrel, darting through the crush like a minnow through weeds.

Toward noontime, Ferret made her escape. She bought a small round of cheese, a sausage and a loaf of bread to share with Kitten before she set off for her lair.

Ferret found Kitten asleep. With a smile, the thief waved the spicy sausage under the beggar's nose. Kitten woke promptly.

"Food! Oh Ferret, bless you!"

They shared the meal, then spent a quiet afternoon, napping and chatting. Toward dusk, Ferret got her day's take ready to settle with Khyzhan.

"Off to the Cur?" Kitten asked. At the thief's nod, she looked wistful. "May I come along?"

"Why not meet me at the Trollop? I'll go there after."

"I
know
you think the trade at the Cur too rough for me; I'll wait outside, but canna we walk together?" Kitten pleaded.

Ferret met the younger girl's hopeful eyes. To get to the Trollop, Kitten would pass a scant alley's length from the Cur. She acquiesced, and the two of them scrambled down to the streets.

There was still heavy foot traffic. Revelers would celebrate Ythykh-Fair until well after midnight; the alehouses and taverns would do a roaring trade, this evening. Secretly, Ferret dreaded the Cur. It was bad enough when it wasn't crammed with folk who had begun drinking early in the day. She left Kitten in the alley and slipped inside.

Kitten picked an inconspicuous place to wait, nestled in the doorway of a dilapidated tenement. As she waited for Ferret she idly noted the others who came and went at the Cur. Ferret was right: the trade was rough. Bravos from several rival factions of the Thieves' Guild; tough, foreign sailors, boldly carrying steel; pimps with their harlots—cold-eyed, all; a couple from the Watch—not uniformed, but unmistakable in their swaggering superiority; and there—that one: flash, slumming. Kitten's interest caught. One Watchman disappeared within, but the second, with the man she had marked as gentry on the prowl, melted into the shadows by the doorway. Odd. She strained her ears for their conversation, but either they were silent, or the background growl from the Cur covered them.

A knot of carousers roiled into the street, leaning against one another and singing raucously. Kitten nearly choked on the smell of sour ale as they passed her hiding place. Ferret came out—small, quiet, and watchful—behind them.

What happened next froze time. Kitten felt like a beetle in amber as the two men emerged from their hiding places and pounced. Ferret struggled uselessly. One of the men covered her mouth and nose with a wad of cloth and Ferret went limp. Then, the third man slipped out of the Cur. He bundled Ferret into a shabby cloak and slung her over his shoulder. Silently, they moved off into the evening mist.

Time unfroze; Kitten flitted after them. No use shouting for the Watch—even if the Watch
cared
about the Slums, Kitten would stake her ears that two of the three men were Watch. But it wasn't an arrest; it
couldn't
be. There had been no outcry of 'thief'—nor was there likely to be such, so deep in the Guild's territory. Kitten followed, easing closer as she tried to glean crumbs of their conversation.

The men lugged Ferret through the Slums to the waterfront district. As they left the Slums behind, wisps of evening fog, tangy with salt, rolled up from the wharves. The wider streets made fewer comfortable shadows in which Kitten could lurk; yet she pressed ever closer. What were they
saying?

Suddenly, they stopped. "This is it," the one Kitten thought was gentry said. "In the name of all the gods, what keeps that
chair?
"

As if his words had summoned it, a curtained litter, carried by four brawny bearers, turned a corner and stopped before them. The flash mark climbed in and the Watchman handed him his burden.

"Meet us at the Palace. Azhere will want a complete report from each of you," the one in the litter said. "And stay out of the Slums; Khyzhan's apt to move against Ybhanne for this." He closed the curtains and the litter moved off.

Kitten, stunned by the implications, stood still a moment too long. One of the men nudged the other; they'd seen her. Swallowing a terrified squeak, Kitten fled for the twisting alleys of her home turf; if she could only make it, surely the promise of Guild infighting would warn the Watch off.

The men pounded after her, but fear lent her wings. She reached the borders of the Slum and vanished into its unsavory maze. The two men stopped, exchanged troubled and angry looks.

"Gods curse it, Falkhan. Ghorran will have our hides."

"I got a good look at her. I've seen the brat; begs in the Temple Gate. If Azhere wants her, I'll get her."

"You don't think we should go after her now?"

Falkhan shook his head. "I told Ghorran this; didn't tell you. The thief brat we nabbed—Ferret. She's a Journeyman: one of Khyzhan's. There'll be blood in the streets before morning."

The first man's jaw dropped. "Holy gods," he breathed, then turned brisk. "Let's get out of here."

***

Kitten reached the Trollop's kitchen pale as paste and utterly winded. Only Sharkbait was there, dozing in the shadows like a hibernating bear. He snapped alert at the sight of her.

"Get your breath, Kitten, and tell me from the beginning."

"It's Ferret," she gasped. "She went—to the Cur; I waited—outside. Three men—nabbed her. Two Watch, off duty; one flash. I followed them—overheard—the flash one said, 'Meet us at the Palace. Azhere—will want a full report.' And he told them to—stay out of the Slums. He said, 'Khyzhan's apt to move—against Ybhanne for this.'"

"
Gods
," Sharkbait whispered.

"And Sharkbait," Kitten ended, despairing. "
They saw me
."

Sharkbait's face had gone gray. "Are you sure they said Azhere, Kitten?"

She nodded.

"And would you recognize them if you saw them again?"

She nodded again.

"Think they'd recognize you?"

"The flash fellow didn't see me; but the other two got a good look," she replied, grim.

Sharkbait cradled his face in his hands. "So." His voice was muffled. "Against all custom and Guild law, Ybhanne betrays one of Khyzhan's Journeymen to House Azhere. This, after a
Ghytteve
cur is killed in the waterfront district. Of course, Cyffe had been tailing Ferret. Someone noticed that; Azhere, no doubt." Sharkbait raised his head: his eyes were bleak. "And it's such a short step from there to me." He sighed. "Mere grist for the Council Houses' mill." He fell silent. Kitten watched him anxiously; he caught her at it and managed a strained smile. "Ferret's clever, but she's no match for Rhydev Azhere. If I had any sense I'd run. It seems very clear: run, or be ground up. But you know, Kitten," he added, his tone edged with self-mockery, "I seem to have lost my survival instinct; I'm not running. It's a form of madness—it must be." He took a step toward the door, shaking his head. "I
should
flee, but do you know what I plan to do instead?"

She shook her head, her eyes wide.

"While you stay here—and
you will stay here
—I shall walk over to the Beaten Cur and start a Guild war."

"Sharkbait, why?"

"Why? Two reasons." He held up one long finger. "First: because I know I haven't any chance at all of killing Ybhanne myself; and—" another finger joined the first-- "second: because a really vicious Guild war—as this promises to be—will keep the Watch and other strangers out of the Slums for a while. We may need some breathing room. Wait here; I'll be back." Then, he was gone.

***

Owl spent the most miserable Ythykh-Fair he could remember shut in the library under the vigilant supervision of Myncerre, Elkhar and the other bodyguards. He tried to amuse himself by practicing his reading, but it wasn't much fun without someone to help him when he got stuck. Even the garden was empty of interest, for the courtiers had abandoned it to their servants. A patio had been swept for dancing, and candles in little colored glass globes were being set along all the walks and fountains. Clearly, there would be a wonderful celebration this evening—and just as clearly, Owl thought, glum, he wasn't invited. No one had even brought him a nosegay; he had never passed Ythykh-tide without a posy—gift of Mouse or her mother.

A painful wash of homesickness swept over him. He held his breath, blinking hard, while he waited for it to pass. It wasn't
safe
to think of Mouse, or Ferret, or any of his friends. With sudden, anxious worry, he wondered
why
Elkhar and the Lady were looking for Mouse—and whether Sharkbait and Ferret had really killed Cyffe. Arre had said not everything he dreamed was real; but surely his nightmare was too unexpected, too far-fetched, to have come from some secret, inner fear of his own.

He made himself turn the page of the heavy volume open in front of him. He knew of the spyholes and listening places which riddled the Palace; Cithanekh had pointed one out to him in warning. It was important, Owl had discovered, to act normally—apparently, boredom was acceptable, probably expected; but tears would bring Myncerre, and an angry tantrum would summon one of the bodyguards. With a heavy sigh, Owl closed the book and put it away; then, he curled up on the sofa. Perhaps a nap would make the time pass more swiftly.

He woke, some time later, as the door opened. He smiled welcome: Cithanekh. The young lord closed the door, then tossed something to Owl.

"Catch."

Owl's beggar reflexes plucked the posy out of the air. He buried his nose in the flowers to hide his sudden prickle of tears. Cithanekh ruffled his hair.

"I asked Ycevi if I could take you down to the Temple Gate this afternoon, but she said no. So I did the best I could." He produced a sticky bun, carefully wrapped in oiled paper, a reed pipe festooned with braided ribbons, and a round package, wrapped in a piece of green silk and tied with a bow.

"Thanks," Owl said, his voice a little tight. "I was feeling sorry for myself."

His lips twitched. "I wonder how I knew you would be."

Owl scrabbled open the paper on the sticky bun and broke it in half. "Share with me?" he invited. "Or are you already full?"

The young lord took the proffered bun. "A fair isn't much fun if you're on your own."

"Don't you have friends among the other lords?"

Cithanekh's expression hardened, though he managed to keep his tone light, slightly mocking. "No. My acquaintance is neatly divided into those who think I will make a useful tool to their hands, and those who would like to be a useful tool in mine."

"Which am I?" Owl asked, troubled.

Cithanekh brushed a strand of hair off Owl's forehead. "You," he said at length, "are in a category all your own."

"Is that why they keep me locked in the library?" Owl asked dryly.

Cithanekh's unguarded laughter lit his face. "Must be," he agreed. "Now, won't you open the package?"

Owl did. Nestled in the shimmery green folds was a bracelet: ivory, carved very cleverly into a pattern of birds and grape vines. The birds were of two kinds, hawk and owl. The owls' eyes were chips of topaz, the hawks', jet; and nestled under the leaves were clusters of amethyst grapes.

"I've never seen anything so beautiful," Owl breathed.

"Two things: let me show you." Cithanekh's long fingers found the hidden catch, and the bracelet sprang open on a nearly invisible hinge. "This is one you can put on and take off at will, Owl; and then, there's this. First hawk, third owl," he said as he pressed them gently. With a faint click, a panel on the inside of the bracelet slid aside, revealing a narrow chamber. "It was so clever, and so beautifully made, I couldn't resist it; but I don't really know what you could use it for." He demonstrated how to close the compartment, then handed the bracelet back to Owl, who put it round his right wrist and pushed it up his arm so that it was hidden by his sleeve.

"I could hide poison," he whispered, fierce, "for Ycevi."

"You mustn't jest about that," Cithanekh warned. "It's damned tempting, but it's been tried—and never with satisfactory results."

"I wasn't jesting—I was
wishing
; I'll stop if it worries you. No one has ever given me a beautiful thing before. Thank you." His hand felt the hard shape of the bracelet through the fabric of his sleeve. "Will they really let me keep it?"

"If they don't," he responded, his brilliant eyes narrowing, "they'll regret it."

Cithanekh's threatening mien reminded Owl uncomfortably of Lady Ycevi. He shivered and looked for something to take his mind off the memory. "Show me how to play the pipe?" he asked, holding it out to the man.

Cithanekh demonstrated where the fingers went, and played a twittering tune. When Owl tried, it shrilled like a mad thing. He laughed. "It doesn't like me!"